BEST OF JODY’S BOX: BRINGING OUT THE SPREE KILLER IN ALL OF US

By Jody Weisel

Near the end of the second moto I sneaked a glance behind me, by looking across the short chute after the hairpin, and that’s when I saw him coming. He hadn’t been there the lap before.

“Don’t worry,” I told myself. “He’s a full straight behind. He’ll never catch me before the end of the moto. I just need to ride my own race.”

My race had been uneventful up to this point—apart from talking to myself. I was all alone. It was less than two laps until the checkered flag and I was cruising at about 80 percent of my max. I hadn’t had any pressure for the whole moto, so if he caught up to me, I could go faster.

At the end of the next lap I couldn’t resist glancing across the track in the same spot. “Yikes,” I said to myself. “He’s reeling me in fast.” And, he was. He had cut my lead in half in one lap. I picked up my pace significantly as we went under the white flag.

I know that the Golden Rule of racing is to never look back, but I whipped my head around over the tabletop to try to get a good look at him. I didn’t see his number, but he was wearing Fox gear. “Who is that guy?” I asked myself. It didn’t really matter in the big scheme of things, but curiosity about who was coming up fast was overwhelming.

In the next left hander I looked over my shoulder again. Surprise! He was no where to be seen. I breathed a sigh of relief. “He must have fallen,” I told myself as I backed my pace down a notch. My pulse had skyrocketed when I first saw him behind me, but now that he wasn’t a danger anymore the beats were coming down. Suddenly, I heard the roar of his engine on my right.

I’M NOT PROUD OF MY FIRST REACTION, BUT I DID WHAT ANY SELF-RESPECTING RIDER WOULD DO. I MOVED TO MY RIGHT TO STOP HIM FROM GETTING BY. OKAY, I DID MORE THAN JUST FUDGE MY LINE A LITTLE—I RAN HIM ALL THE WAY TO THE BANNERS.

“Crud!” I screamed into my helmet. He hadn’t fallen. Instead he was so close that when I looked over my left shoulder he was on my right side. I’m not proud of my first reaction, but I did what any self-respecting rider would do. I moved to my right to stop him from getting by. Okay, I did more than just fudge my line a little—I ran him all the way to the banners before I made a last-ditch effort to turn the corner. He yelled something at me—It was not an invitation to a post-race barbecue.

I had gained a few feet by running him wide and quickly tried to magnify that lead by holding my bike wide open. I knew that what I had done to him was dirty, but as much as I hate dirty riding, I hate being passed on the last lap even more.

In the next right-hander I brake-checked him. His front wheel rammed the back of my leg. “Man, this guy is serious,” I said to myself. As we exited the corner nose to tail, I knew that he would try to get me in the long section of stutter bumps at the end of the straight. I had been taking the smooth route down the outside for the whole moto, so I headed for the outside and at the last instant darted to the inside and went through the whoops like a ping pong ball. I had suckered him in. He was startled by my careening tactics and dropped his front wheel into the last whoop.

I got around the corner and headed for the big double. I hadn’t been jumping it. I didn’t feel the need to earlier in the race, but now I had come to the moment of truth. “Jump it!” I yelled into my helmet. Unfortunately, my brain was well insulated against crazy ideas. Although I was going way too fast, I slammed the brakes on and landed like a ton of brick between the two jumps. I expected to see his shadow above my head at any moment. Shockingly, my lack of bravado had ruined his approach and he had to single the double behind me.

MY ONLY CHANCE WAS A “PICK-UP PASS.” YOU KNOW WHAT A PICK-UP PASS IS, DON’T YOU—IT’S WHERE I CRASH INTO HIM
AND WE SEE WHO CAN PICK UP HIS BIKE FIRST.

There was one corner left. My whole race came down to this one turn. In the strange world of motocross racing. My lack of ethics would be vindicated if I beat him through the last turn. It was a big roundhouse right-hander before the short uphill to the finish line.

“Should I take the berm on the outside?” I asked myself. “Or should I cut through the mud on the inside. Better yet, should I pretend to take the outside and then move to the inside?” While I was playing 20 question he made a decisive move to the outside and pulled up next to me. He had the good line to the berm and the flag was fluttering only 45 feet away.

My only chance was a “pick-up pass.” You know what a pick-up pass is, don’t you—it’s where I crash into him and we see who can pick up his bike first. I quickly rocketed across the middle of the turn to cut him off. Unfortunately, my front tire pushed in the mud and I skidded right up to his footpeg, but missed him. I remounted and crossed the finish line. The guy never looked back as he rode through the pits—I was glad about that because I was a little ashamed of the way I had ridden.

“Jody,” said Jimmy Mac as I climbed off my bike in the pits. “What were you thinking? You were riding like a spree killer. What got into you?”

“Jimmy,” I said. “I hate getting lapped.”